


Nightmares and Fear

by zoltargirl (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I Don't Even Know, John Whump, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Protective Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/zoltargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's mind is often not the most pleasant place to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares and Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, it's been a while. So this is the first time I've really tried nightmares or panic attacks, and I tried to be as accurate as I could. If there is ANYTHING at all that's incorrect in any way at all, please let me know.

John heard his own breath catch in his throat as his body jerked into consciousness. The deafening sound of gunfire seemed to echo through his head as he crawled out of sleep by his fingernails. He focused on breathing slowly, steadily sending air through his lungs. John moved his limbs and digits compulsively, convincing himself that he was awake despite the residual inklings of a nightmare swimming in his mind.

Shutting his eyes against the own insanity of his mind, John found his way to a sitting position, carefully placing his bare feet on the carpet and trying to feel the solidity. He set his elbows atop his suddenly unsteady knees, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes and telling his mind to shut up about the pain in his leg because _for God’s sake it’s not even actually there._ But no matter how many times he repeated something similar in frustration at his own brain, it never seemed true enough.

_This is real - right here. The rough sheets and the worn carpet and my hands and the oxygen and the walls and the ceiling. The pain isn’t real and I’m not being shot at anymore and for fuck’s sake just calm down._

Shaking himself out of the hyperventilation that was starting, John took the deepest breath he could manage in his crouched position, just trying to get control of himself, panic scratching at the corners of his eyes.

John kept up his mantra of Things That Are Real almost reverently, listing off every physical thing he could think of, keeping his hands fastened tightly on his eyes. He kept thinking that being incapacitated by a bad dream was a bit pathetic for someone who came from the army, and had seen more blood and death than anyone should ever be burdened with.

But then he decided that that was bullshit.

“John?” The aforementioned doctor was uprooted from his dreadful state by a voice from behind him. Sherlock sounded slightly irritated, but it was masked by a large layer of concern, and atop that, a sleepy and languid tone that blanketed both, packaging them up neatly.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” John’s voice didn’t come at first, and when it did, it was harsh sounding and breathy. A light clicked on, filling the room with a warm glow.

“You were shaking the bed. Why are you rocking?” John knew his face was flushing at remark, but he just listened to Sherlock shift the fabric around behind him.

“I’m not rocking,” he said, perhaps a bit too defensively.

“Not now, but before you were doing something of the sort. It may have been an unconscious movement, seeing as some people resort to instinctual methods of self-soothing, rocking being one of them. You can probably see the connection there. But the important question is not  _if_ you were rocking, but rather _why,”_ Sherlock finished dramatically, waddling closer to John on his knees, and slipping part of the blanket over his friend’s shoulders.

John leaned into Sherlock’s side, holding the already warm blanket over his left arm. John stayed silent, hoping the other wouldn’t push the question. Sherlock slipped his arms around Watson’s shoulders, twirling his fingers through the cropped blonde hair as he did sometimes, almost completely absentmindedly.

“I would like to know, if you cared to tell me.” John couldn’t see, but he was sure that the piercing eyes were turned on him, surveying his every movement with no rest.

“And if I didn’t want to tell you?”

“I would still want to know.”

John smiled, gently bumping his shoulder into the other’s ribs. The vomit inducing nervousness was ebbing away under Sherlock’s fingers, but John still felt anxious, a squeak of the bed or the creaks of the ‘settling’ building making him jump slightly.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“I’m fine, Sher. I’m gonna get some water. Just go back to bed.” John stepped out of the blankets and Sherlock’s soft touch, making his way to the stairwell.

He padded down the carpeted steps, his left hand grazing along the wallpaper to help keep his bearings. John flicked the light on, smirking a little at the towers of unlabelled things piled on almost every surface. He pushed a glass under the tap and took a few gulps, grinding his teeth in protest of the tar-like whispers oozing through his temporarily quiet mind.

John always found a strange sort of serenity around his Holmes - especially when they weren’t on a case. Sherlock’s mind was never quiet, never anything less than buzzing, but he could impart the feeling onto others so easily sometimes. Funny how quickly lovely things can end.

He screwed his eyes shut, a bout of nausea coming over him in gross measures. He vaguely registered the cup slipping from his hand, smashing on the floor. The gut stirring need to vomit clamped down on his abdomen so suddenly John almost collapsed onto the tiles along with it. He leaned down over the sink basin, pressing his head to the cool steel of the faucet. The doctor fastened his hands on the edge of the counter, chilling trembles shaking their way down his spine. His breath flew out of his chest in punches, the pounding in his chest audible in his confused state.

There was fear: a gut twisting, sweat breaking, hair-standing-on-end type of fear. John was sure that any second the windows would smash, men coming in from every direction wielding guns and bloodied batons and merciless fury. He could feel the heat and dust of the battlefield, sweat dripping by what felt like the gallon. He needed to get out of here. He needed to run and flee wherever this was. There wasn’t enough air, and it was going to kill him. John could see his own body crumpled on the red-stained ground in this oxygen deprived vacuum. His thoughts seemed to continuously sprint along, tripping and stumbling one after another in a disorienting stream.

He needed someone, but _no one would help because who in their right mind cared about John Watson and I am going to die or be killed but my life is ending soon and why isn’t there enough air in this goddamn place I just want to get out of here someone help me please._

And there was suddenly a person in front of him, and they were talking, but he couldn’t hear and he just forced his eyes closed again, and _get me out of here oh please get me out of here._

“John! John! John, listen to me! John!” Sherlock shouted. John was slouched against the cabinets, quaking violently, sweat coating his skin and soaking through his thin t-shirt. With a growl, he pried the familiar hands from where they scratched and grasped at the tiles, fingers trickling smeared crimson brought by the clear shards that littered the floor. Sherlock held them both in one of his own as he had on so many occasions.

He gingerly cradled John’s face with his right hand, smiling in relief when he opened his eyes. John still looked panicked, probably in a world far from this one. “John, can you hear me?” Sherlock asked, brushing his fingers along his hairline.

“I have to get out of here. Please,” John said quietly, letting his eyes close again. He could feel the familiar cooling fingers on his temple, but the strange heat flashes that flushed through his skin repeatedly warded off the feeling that usually came with Sherlock’s wary comforting.

“What do you mean, John? We’re in the flat, John. We’re at home.”

“I- I don’t know. I just-” he took a deep breath. “I need to get out.” Sherlock nodded slightly.

“Okay. Let’s go out for a bit, then?” John nodded, and Sherlock pulled him to his feet, gripping at his forearms to avoid the the still dripping hands. John walked unsteadily out of the flat, going too quickly down the stairs and slipping out of the door of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock following closely.

John plopped down on the stone stairs outside of their building, the chilly night seeping through his threadbare shirt and boxers, not helped by the sodden nature of the fabric.

Sherlock settled himself on the cement next to John, not sure what to do. John stared at the red pigment now covering the palms of his hands. He felt overly tired, exhausted even.

His limbs felt weak, and his chest ached. John sucked in the cold air, trying to figure out what had just happened. He ran his hands through his hair, pushing his own head down towards his bare knees.

Watson could feel the tears resting painfully tight behind the bridge of his nose, but he swallowed it down, working his jaw against the familiar feeling. Sherlock watched the strange movements John made, and with a bit of thought, decided on the best route to go.

John barely noticed Sherlock’s extended hand at first, but when he sat up straighter, it was plain to see. The welcoming gesture was splotched with John’s own dried blood, he could see that easily in the yellow light glowing from the lamp above them.

With a smile, the doctor clapped his own hand on top of it, ignoring the pang that came with the sudden force on his raw skin.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. Sherlock just rested their hands on his own leg, examining the apparent differences in their fingers silently.

“You should have told me, John.”

“Told you what? I’m not sure _I_ even know what’s happening,” John murmured.

Sherlock turned to him, and flashed a brilliant smile. “I would still like to know.”

John laughed, sliding a bit so their arms lay flush against one another.

“You’re an idiot,” he said sleepily, leaning his head against Sherlock’s warm body. Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s temple, furrowing his brows when John pulled away. He was about to ask what was wrong when John leaned up and kissed Sherlock, silencing his questioning remarks.

“But I still love you for it, for whatever crazy reason,” John breathed, resting back against Sherlock’s arm.


End file.
